


like you're running out of time

by ascloseasthis



Series: the world turned upside down [2]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Emotional Sex, F/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Resolutions, Oral Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascloseasthis/pseuds/ascloseasthis
Summary: Three weeks after the Langley bombing, Carrie and Quinn celebrate the New Year.Advent-kinda fic for December 31. Takes place between chapters 5 and 6 of the world turned upside down, but I think it can stand on its own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrangipaniFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/gifts).



It’s 5pm on New Year’s Eve when Quinn rises from his work station, leans across the desk with a huff of breath, and shuts Carrie’s laptop. “We’re done,” he announces.

The afterimage of the screen hovers in front of her for a second; she blinks it away and nods. They’ve been working for hours — days, really, nearly non-stop since the day after the bombing. “I could use a break,” she agrees, stretching her arms high over her head, pulling at her spine.

“We’re done for the night,” Quinn clarifies.

Startled, she drops her hands back and tips her head back to look at him. “What?”

“C’mon, Carrie. Is this really how you wanna start the new year?”

“Tracking down terrorists?” Carrie challenges indignantly. “Yeah, Quinn, I think that’s a pretty solid use of my time.”

“ _Working_ ,” he says. “You know, they say the way you spend New Year’s Eve is the way you’re gonna spend the next year.”

Carrie can’t help the scoff that escapes her. “And how do _you_ normally spend it?”

“Working.”

“Right,” she answers, sarcastic but actually considering it. The past few years have been… work and one night stands, mostly, the fake engagement ring sparkling on her hand. She knows it’s bullshit, knows he knows it too, but there’s probably something to it. Something psychological. “It’s a little late to make plans.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Quinn says easily. “Let’s go.”

“Are you asking me _out_?” Carrie asks.

“I’m taking you to dinner. Go home and I’ll pick you up at eight.”

She should probably spend the evening with her family, making up for the Christmas dinner she’d barely made an appearance at, but… she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to be here, either. Carrie tilts her head and shoots back, “you know, Quinn, the way you spend New Year’s Eve is the way you’re gonna spend the next year.”

He looks down at her meaningfully. “I can handle that.”

“Quinn…” she says, uncertain, cheeks getting hot.

“Eight o’clock,” he repeats, and Carrie reaches for her coat.

-

It’s been eighteen days since the Langley bombing. She’s woken up with Quinn in her bed for… several of them. Most other nights have ended with Carrie asleep on the couch in Saul’s office, unclear on how she got there, though she has her suspicions. Quinn’s always back at Langley before her.

They never talk about it. She doesn’t know where they’d even begin.

Carrie takes her time getting ready, though. She puts on an actual dress, heels, spends time in the mirror. Red lipstick. She runs her hands through her hair. There’s a knock at the door.

Quinn is fifteen minutes early, perpetually. “It’s open!” she calls out, because she’s learned to expect this from him. She might as well give him a key, she thinks, but what kind of message would that send? What kind of message does she want to send?

She hears his footsteps as he walks up the stairs.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” she hears, and she could have predicted that too. “Anybody could come in.”

Carrie rolls her eyes and puts the lipstick down; she catches him walking into her bedroom out of the corner of her eye. “You mean like an assassin?”

“Like that,” he agrees.

“You’re early,” she says, exiting the bathroom and flicking off the light. “Want a drink?”

“Not if it’s that fuckin’ vodka.” She can feel him staring.

Carrie laughs as she walks past him, down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Uh, no. We finished that.” She pauses to look back at him. “I have wine. And I picked up some Jameson for you.”

Quinn’s eyebrows go up. “Whiskey it is,” she says, but when she goes to retrieve it she feels him behind her, hands bracketing her against the counter, surrounding her with his body. Carrie freezes, her hand on the bottle, as he brings his lips down to her throat.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, and Carrie twists to face him, pulling back a little.

“Don’t mess up my lipstick,” she warns him.

“God forbid.” He kisses her chastely, though he still comes away with a slight smudge of red on his mouth. She brings her thumb to his lips, rubbing gently. She can’t stop looking at him, is basking in his proximity. “Maybe we should just go,” he suggests, his breath hot on her face.

She doesn’t want to, is the thing, so she twines her arms around his neck and tips her head back to kiss him, hot and hungry. Carrie takes the lead but she doesn’t keep it — Quinn’s arm slides around her waist, gripping her roughly, pulling her against him. He pulls back after a minute. “I made reservations,” he grinds out. “You gonna let me keep them?”

Carrie casts her eyes up at him, a little hazy. “Really, Quinn?”

He shrugs. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay.” She pulls her arms back, sliding her hands from his shoulders to his chest, elbows bent as her palms press into him. “You _might_ want to wash your face,” she warns him. “Not that you don’t look _great_ in red.”

Quinn smiles at that and takes a step back. “You might want to reapply,” he says, and then pauses. “Or not.”

-

He takes her to a small bistro that sits in the shadow of the Four Seasons. Candlelight flickers across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, and Carrie feels a little overwhelmed by it all.

“So,” she says, because she can’t think of anything else.

“So.”

“It _is_ a date.”

“Not if you pay.”

She chokes out a laugh, relieved by his lightness, which she needed, which he knew she needed. The waiter arrives and she watches, head tilted, as he orders a bottle of wine — her preferred brand of Chardonnay.

It occurs to her that he knows everything about her, while she knows next to nothing about him.  

“So when was your last real date, Quinn?” She prods, starting soft.

“The ER nurse. Last night. Bowling.”

She laughs again. “We were working last night, Quinn. You’re not gonna give me anything, are you?”

His playful eyes sober. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” Carrie asks. She doesn’t want to talk about work — doesn’t think he’d engage with her, anyway. It’s been three weeks — almost, and it’s been nonstop.

He looks away. “I want to get the fuck out, Carrie. You ever think about it?”

A flush creeps up her cheeks. “Once or twice.” His gaze flicks back to her. “It’s not… we do important work, Quinn.”

“Yeah, well, what about you?”

She asked him first, but it still throws her. “I dunno, I don’t usually make resolutions.”

“Humor me.”

She nods, thinking of the clusterfuck of the past two years. Getting shipped out of Baghdad, her… relationship with Brody. ECT. She can go back even further, thinking about her interpreter strung up from a bridge, her affair with Estes. All the strangers she’s fucked and the fuck-ups that have turned her into the kind of woman who falls in love with a terrorist, knowing the whole time who he is.

“I think… I just want to be better, Quinn. A better person, I guess. Make up for everything else.”

Tears fill her eyes. Quinn stretches his hand across the table, tangling their fingers together. “To new beginnings.”

They toast.

-

At 10:45 they leave the restaurant, Carrie tucked under his arm. She’s not really dressed for the December cold, so she settles in against him, leeching his warmth, shivering under her wool coat that’s just barely longer than her skirt. She lets him guide her, doesn’t even notice that they’re walking in the opposite direction from the parking garage.

“You cold?” he asks, stating the obvious. “Come on, I’ll warm you up.”

“That sounds promising.” As they turn into the courtyard of the Four Seasons, she looks up at him in surprise. “Wine bar?”

“If you want,” he says agreeably, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “But I had other ideas.”

With his free hand, he fishes around in his overcoat pocket for a room key. “Confident,” Carrie observes, and he chuckles, but she’s authentically surprised — even charmed. Grand romantic gestures, however sexual, haven't really been part of their deal.

Just outside the door, Quinn pauses. “No wine bar, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good,” he says, and he opens the door for her as she ducks out of his grip. She doesn’t even notice the opulence of the lobby, is too busy looking at him. When he comes close, she moves to kiss him. Her height in the heels makes almost no difference, he’s so tall he still has to lean down to meet her. “C’mon,” he says, straightening, and he leads her into the elevator.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head, watching him. He has to reach around her to select a floor. “I would have been _fine_ ordering in and watching the ball drop at my place. Happy, even.”

“It’s a new year, I wanted to do something different,” he shrugs. “Any objections?”

Carrie shakes her head. “No, but _you’re_ pretty nice,” she says flirtatiously. “I didn’t need a five-star hotel.”

He reaches out, cupping her cheek gently to keep her eyes on his. “Well _I_ did,” he replies — a little mischievous but mostly honest, she thinks. She bites her lip. “Go with it, Carrie.”

The bell dings, signaling their arrival on the floor. “Not exactly my strong suit,” she admits, following a step behind as he makes his way to their room.

“It’s been a fucked-up month,” Quinn agrees, slipping his key card into the lock and pushing the door open. “Let’s not think about it.”

He helps her out of her coat and goes to hang it as she enters the room. There’s Champagne waiting for them, propped in a silver ice bucket. A bouquet of flowers sits beside it on the table. Red roses. Carrie inhales sharply and turns, surprised to find him right behind her. “Quinn…” His hand finds its way into her hair, gently cradling the base of her skull. “This is too much,” she whispers.

And it is, truly, but Quinn doesn’t let her reflect on that too closely, letting his fingers trail beneath her jaw, down her throat. His thumb rests on her clavicle. “Champagne?” he suggests, but Carrie shakes her head, pulling away slightly to go for the buttons on his shirt.

“Not yet.” She exposes his chest, looks up to find him watching her. Pushing his shirt off his shoulders, she brings her mouth to his skin, lipstick smearing over his heart.

“Carrie—”

She pushes up to kiss him then, hands drifting to his belt buckle, feels him tucking her hair behind her ear, fingers brushing on her skin. She’s surprised by the sweetness of it, by this whole evening — more than she expected, or deserves. “Sit down,” she directs him, breaking the kiss, tugging at the waistband of his slacks.

Quinn obliges, kicking off his shoes as he sinks down onto the mattress. “C’mere,” he mutters, grabbing at her hand, pulling her on top of him. She feels the tear of a seam as she lands clumsily, straddling his thighs. He’s rock hard already and she gasps when he rolls his hips against her, the length of him brushing against her clit.

“No,” she sighs, pushing him back against the bed as she climbs off his lap. She drags his slacks off his legs, boxers too, then takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him waiting for her. “Move back,” she says, and he shifts to the center of the mattress. She follows, hovers over him for a long moment, gazing meaningfully into his eyes before bringing her mouth to his. Her hand travels lightly down his torso and she follows with her tongue.

“Fuck, Carrie,” he groans. She can feel him watching her, so she drops a kiss to his hipbone, noting the crimson smudge she leaves behind. She glances at his face, his throat, her lipstick everywhere. A rush of heat goes through her body as she thinks about marking him, her last act of the year — staking a claim on a man who deserves better.

She brings her hand to the base of his cock, feels it twitching in her grip. “Yeah, Quinn?”

“Nothing, just — fuck, Carrie, _please_.”

She revels in the reversal, making him beg for once. “Please what?” She drags her hand lightly along the length of him, adjusting her position so she can see his face. His teeth are pressed into his bottom lip, one hand clenched. His hips jerk forward when she runs her thumb over the head of his dick. “Please _what_ ,” she repeats, pleased.

“Christ,” he mutters, pushing himself to a seated position. “Please, Carrie. Suck my cock.”

And she wants to, badly, wants to feel him coming undone for her. So she leans forward to kiss him, her hand still wrapped around him. “Sure,” she tells him, smiling, and he sinks, relieved, back to the pillow as she bends to take him in her mouth.

She presses her free hand into his hip, feels his fingers curling into her hair, not guiding her, just light on her scalp as she relaxes her throat, taking him in as far as she can, hand working at the base of his cock. Swiping her tongue along the sensitive underside of his dick as she pulls back, swirling around the head before sinking back down, pulling him a little deeper each time.

She can hear his groans, his strangled breathing, and she feels the throbbing heat between her legs as his grip on her hair grows tighter, pulling. Carrie increases her speed, cheeks hollowed as she lets him fuck her mouth, hears him gasping her name as he tries to tug her back. But she ignores it, moans around him, knows he can feel the vibration deep in her throat, and she pulls back a fraction as he spills into her mouth. “Jesus _fuck_ Carrie,” he manages, the words practically ripped out of him.

Carrie does her best to swallow, licks him clean before she moves slowly up his body, trailing kisses on his skin as he relaxes his fingers. His breath is ragged, she can feel his heart racing under her lips.

“Carrie,” he exhales, regaining his bearings as she settles down beside him.

“Hi,” she says, pleased with herself. Quinn pushes himself up on his elbow and glances tenderly down at her. “I just wanted to do that before 2013.”

“Carrie,” he says again, and she blinks, making a vague sound of acknowledgement. “Take off that fucking dress before I rip it again.”

“I’m shocked you noticed,” she laughs, but she sits up, pulls her long hair over her shoulder. “Unzip me.”

She feels the mattress sink behind her, more movement than would be strictly necessary for him to reach out and slide her zipper down. He does it slowly, lightly trailing his fingers down her spine, making her shiver. When the dress is open, falling off her shoulder, Carrie slides off the bed.

“Champagne while you recover?” she offers smugly.

But Quinn’s got other ideas, she can see it in the way he lazily glances at the clock and then back at her. “Your dress, Carrie,” he says, in a low, warning tone. She feels herself flush under his gaze, but she obeys, lets the fabric pool on the ground. “Come here.”

Whatever power she thought she had is gone, and she wordlessly returns to him. She feels exposed stretched out beside him in just bra and panties, matching black lace. He’s naked but she knows that he knows that she wore this for him. So he lets her, he’s touching her but barely, skimming down her waist and sliding his hand between her thighs, feeling the drenched fabric. She whimpers as he grazes her clit and his lips twist appreciatively.

She closes her eyes as she arches back, wanting him closer. Quinn slides one finger beneath the lace, slipping it easily inside her. She hisses an obscenity, needing _more_ , and he brings his mouth to her ear. “So fucking wet, Carrie,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, but going entirely still. “Tell me why.”

“Fuck,” she moans, but when she pushes her hips forward, into his hand, Quinn withdraws. She turns toward him, curling into his body as she seeks out his mouth. He shifts to balance over her, his wet hand dragging up her thigh, her stomach, curving around her breast and squeezing over the lace.

Quinn looks deadly serious as he drops to kiss her, so slowly she almost bites him. “I asked you a question,” he reminds her, pulling back, grazing the shell of her ear with his teeth.

“ _God_.” She tries to push herself up to her elbows but he’s got her surrounded, and she thinks, a little hysterical, _this is the thanks I get?_ She swallows. “I liked making you come,” she breathes, and he rewards her by slipping under her bra, brushing his thumb across a nipple.

“And?”

“Fuck, Quinn, _please_.”

“ _And_?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re violating the Geneva Convention,” she accuses him.

His hand slides beneath her, searching for the clasp of her bra and pulling it open. “Who’s declaring war?”

“ _Me_ if you don’t fucking quit it.” Quinn laughs as he removes her bra, rising as he tosses the garment to the ground. Carrie’s splayed out on her back, chest heaving as she watches him watching her, his pupils dark but eyes dancing as he brings his mouth to her nipple, biting a little before soothing it with his tongue.

“Quinn…” she sighs, finally feels like she’s getting somewhere with him. “I…” But she doesn’t really know what she even means to say, so she reaches down, her hands on his cheeks, and pulls him up to kiss her. Long and languorous. Carrie arches back, trying to find friction, but he anticipates her.

“ _What else_?” he growls, and her eyes snap open as she realizes that he’s tormenting himself as much as he is her.

The thought gives her the upper hand — kind of, but she relinquishes it easily now, leans up to whisper, “I liked sucking your cock. I liked making you beg for once.”

“Thought so.” He immediately pulls back to his knees, bringing his hand to her underwear, pulls it so hard and so suddenly that she hears it rip.

“You’re ruining all my clothes,” she notes breathlessly, then adds, “and those were new.”

“Sorry,” he says, in a tone that indicates exactly the opposite. Two fingers plunge abruptly inside her, and she gasps. “What time is it?”

Too turned on to really question it, Carrie’s head twists to the side as she frantically seeks out the clock. “E… eleven thirty-three.”

“Good.” His mouth travels down her body, as his fingers work diligently inside of her. She’s fucking desperate for him, but his forearm is pressed across her hipbone, pinning her flat to the mattress. Carrie cries out when his tongue finally finds her clit, circling. She flings her arm across her mouth to muffle her cries, but Quinn stops what he’s doing in order to look at her, and she promptly grabs at her pillow.

Her eyes screw shut as she loses herself in the sensation, Quinn’s hands and tongue and alpha command bringing her right to the brink. He adds a third finger, emulating the girth of his dick if not the whole throbbing size of it, and Carrie’s hips lurch in spite of his effort to hold her down, adrenaline and pleasure combining as she cries out his name. His tongue returns to her clit and she feels like her whole body is pulsing when she finally, fucking _finally_ , comes.

“Oh god,” she says, breathing hard as he slows down, allowing her shuddering muscles to set the pace. As she gradually grows still, feeling utterly liquified by her orgasm, Quinn withdraws from her body and climbs up to kiss her. Her mouth opens, welcoming the invasion of his tongue, the heady taste of herself. She can still feel little aftershocks, and when he goes to reach between her thighs again she grabs his wrist.

“No?” he asks, his voice husky with desire. She shakes her head, still hazy, and she feels his mouth on her throat. “I thought I’d see how many times I could make you come before the new year.”

Carrie chokes out a laugh, knows he can feel her pulse bumping beneath her skin. “I’m ready for Champagne now,” she says, still struggling to calm down.

“Sure.” She feels the bed dip a little bit as he departs.

Carrie rises, pushing herself to a seated position so she can watch him. Quinn is self-assured and confident in his bare skin — not that he has any reason not to be, she thinks, her gaze trailing over his body, his reviving erection. She likes watching him, likes watching his hands on the Champagne bottle, pulling away the dark foil and twisting the wire around the cork. “You went all out,” she observes, noting the label. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

He doesn’t look at her when he pops the cork. There’s a dark twist of desire in the pit of her stomach as he fills two flutes and brings one to her. “It’s almost midnight,” he notes, looking at the clock.

“Let’s toast now,” she suggests, swallowing hard. “To us, Quinn.”

He clinks his glass against hers. “Sure, Carrie.” He tips the glass back — disappointed with his response, she echoes his movement, drinking so quickly some of the liquid spills down her chin. She goes to wipe it away but he beats her to it, his thumb brushing gently over her face.

“Quinn,” she whispers, and he takes both glasses and moves them to the table before returning to her. He cups her face gently with his left hand and kisses her softly, sweetly, laying her back against the pillows. It feels different now, open and easy, no challenge in either direction as she winds her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

It’s the most honest they’ve ever been with each other, Carrie thinks, about what this is between them. She’s fucked up so much, for months, culminating in utter devastation. But Quinn’s still here, still taking care of her in every possible way. She doesn’t deserve this — her toast should have been “ _to you_.”

Too late now, so she tries to convey it with her lips and tongue. One hand travels into his hair, pulling him as close as she can, foreheads touching as the kiss breaks. She can feel his breath on her lips, the effort he’s making not to crush her under his weight. They stare at each other, his blue eyes penetrating, and she sighs, “I need you.”

She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Yeah,” he agrees, reaching between her thighs again to make sure she’s ready for him. Even that small touch makes her gasp, and he moves his hand to her knee to bend it. Carrie’s legs widen to accommodate him and her mouth opens as he begins to push slowly inside her.

Carrie cries out at the feeling of him stretching her; he stills as her grip in his hair tightens, Carrie pulling him back to kiss her, her tongue in his mouth. He starts to move, slowly, as her ankles lock at the small of his back. “Open your eyes,” he tells her, and they blink open, surprised. “I want to see you,” he adds, and she nods, letting out a deep breath and dropping her hand.

There are still traces of her lipstick on his throat — it sends a rush through her, a little bit. She doesn’t know when the pigment disappeared from his face; it occurs to her that it’s less a mark than a stain. She flinches at the thought, bites her lip. “Hey,” Quinn says, and his palm is light on her cheek again.

“Harder, Quinn,” she says, struggling with this pace, this sweetness. For the first time she feels like they’re _making love_ , not merely fucking, and the desire she feels is thoroughly at odds with what he deserves. She hasn’t given him enough.

He obeys, two measured thrusts driving deep to her center. “Like that?”

Carrie nods, but she feels her eyes filling with tears. Her resolution to be a better person echoes in her mind, and she wonders if she should start by letting him go. “Carrie,” he says, concerned.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, when he reaches out to brush her tears away. “I’m fine, I just… please, Quinn.”

“ _Carrie_ ,” he repeats, and she smiles, pushing up to kiss him again, slowly. Her arms circle his neck once more and he lowers them both back to the mattress as he thrusts gently into her. Carrie moans into his mouth, feeling him as he moves slowly and deeply within her body. She feels like she’s vibrating around him. “Carrie, you’re fine.”

She nods, feels his fingers as they work between her thighs, pressing on her clit, circling, pressing again. She arches back, crying out as she comes around him, his intimate thrusts catalysts for an orgasm that rings through her like a bell. She cries out his name, and as she clenches around him she feels him moving deep and hard, faster, leaving her shaking when he spills, hot, inside her.

“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing on top of her. Her arms fall slack to the mattress as Quinn kisses her forehead, tenderly moving her hair from her face before he glances back at the clock. “Happy New Year, Carrie,” he murmurs.

Quinn starts to pull back, but Carrie’s legs are still locked around him and she’s not ready to let him go just yet. She likes the weight of him on her. “Okay?” he just asks, and he wraps his arms around her as he shifts to his back, Carrie on top of him.

“Okay,” she agrees, and then smiles as she moves to kiss his neck, tasting the sweat and lipstick on his skin. “Happy New Year, Quinn.”

When she falls asleep in his arms, she thinks, _I could spend the next year like this._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Leblanc1 for her editing and endless cheerleading! I love you lots. 
> 
> And, to FrangipaniFlower, thanks for all the amazing things you do for this fandom. You are too good to us all.


End file.
